By Tracy Kiely
I must confess that the only time a serial killer held any allure for me was two years ago when I dressed as one for Halloween. It was a very uncomfortable experience, mainly because the little knives I’d stuck into the little travel boxes of cereal (that in turn were stapled to my pants) kept sliding out.
Get it? Serial killer – Cereal killer.
Thank you. I’m here all week. Try the veal. Be kind to your waitresses.
Other that that, I have no interest in delving into the mind of a serial killer. I read and write cozies. My books are inspired by Jane Austen, and in a sense are a kind of comedy of manners, but with a murder (or two) thrown in. Which is totally different from mass killing, thank you very much, so stop judging me. I merely enjoy the puzzle aspect of finding a killer among otherwise well-mannered people.
But I guess if I was pressed to ask a serial killer a question, I would ask John Wayne Gacy, “Seriously dude. What is up with the clowns?”
Then I’d run like hell.